


In a Jeweled Crown

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Fealty Kink, M/M, Maitimo doesn't always top when when he does he prefers to not half-ass it, Nolofinwë has a massive bathroom, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: The King is dead, long live the King.





	1. Oaths Ye Have Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Whereas at morning in a Jeweled Crown  
I bit my fingers and was hard to please,  
Having shook disaster till the fruit fell down  
I feel tonight more happy and at ease
> 
> \- Edna St. Vincent Millay

It was before dawn when Findekáno woke, roused out of a dismal half-slumber by the four o’clock bell. Every inch of him ached, from sorrow and anxiety and exhaustion, and he wondered if this would be the truth for the rest of his life. The first few steps out of bed were tenuous and awkward, and the bones in his ankle clicked and caught as they always did when he was tired, and he could not help but take this as some sort of omen as he slipped into his robe and fastened the belt.

He circled the room and tapped a few stone lamps to bring them to life, and when he was no longer fumbling in the dark he nodded in a semblance of satisfaction and sat before his mirror. This morning it was not a bright and joyful face smiling back at him. He had barely slept, and if he was being honest with himself he had not truly rested in a fortnight; the _ nér _ in the glass before him was hollow-eyed and wan from fatigue. It had been two weeks since the battle, and one week since he was certain his father was not coming back.

Behind him, the door opened; he watched the reflection of his valet Faelion step into his room with a tray of food and then shut the door again. 

“You had best eat something, _ haryon-nînya,_” his servant said, breaking the silence that had lingered like death.

“_Haryon? _” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“For a little while longer, at least.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I am not hungry, Faelion.”

“Perhaps not,” the other _ nér _ said, sitting the tray down on a table behind him. “But you will be, before the day is out, and the mourning-fast is not yet broken - there will be no feast this evening to celebrate.”

“I _ know,_” Findekáno answered, annoyed, “and - !”

“And so if you fail to eat now, by the time you are able to do so, the kitchens will be more or less closed and the hearthfires banked for the night,” Faelion interrupted, setting out a napkin beside the tray. “Unless you want cold porridge, I suggest you do what you can to enjoy your breakfast.”

“I am hard-pressed to enjoy anything at the moment,” Findekáno replied, and sighed again, and shook his head. “But you are right, of course.” He rose from the low stool he had been sitting in and moved to the table. His valet had brought him a hearty slice of egg pie, accompanied by a serving of _ ránelet _ greens tossed in oil and thinly-sliced almonds; beside it was a small loaf of sweetbread and a mug of tea. On any normal morning it would have been a lovely meal, but now the thought of food turned his stomach. Still, Faelion was right - it was more or less now or never. He picked up the slender fork beside his plate and used the edge of it to cut off a small piece of pie.

“Thank you,” he said, and began to eat.

“You’re welcome,” Faelion answered, voice muffled. He was in Findekáno’s closet, and as his lord had breakfast he searched for clothes plain enough and close-fitting enough to suit their needs. At last, he emerged bearing a white shirt of simple make and a pair of deerskin leggings dyed pale grey; he sat them on the edge of the bed almost regretfully.

“It has been an honor to serve you,” he said. Findekáno frowned, and glanced over his shoulder, swallowing a last bite of egg and crust.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well,” his valet replied, “your new station has different responsibilities than I am used to, and there is a staff already in place, and so I thought…”

“You assumed I would rather have Endanáro over you?”

“Yes, if we are being blunt. Considering how well and faithfully he fulfilled his duties, it would be rude to merely cast him aside.”

“Just as it would be rude to cast _ you _ aside after these centuries of aid and companionship,” Findekáno said, and turned his attention to the greens still on his plate. “And besides - I barely know Endanáro, and between the two of us I find him unbearably stiff.” 

Faelion laughed softly. “And I am not? You described me once as overly focused on propriety.”

“I could use someone like that in the endless war that I am about to spend my days in,” Findekáno told him through a mouthful of food. He swallowed and continued. “Decorum does not come naturally to me, if you did not notice. I was more than content to remain a perpetual prince.” He took another bite, weighing a few options in his thoughts, and nodded to himself. “No, I will neither rid myself of you nor Endanáro. Surely there are enough duties in the day for the both of you, and if not, I can find a place for him of equal or greater honor.”

There was a long silence, and then Faelion said “Thank you, _ haryon-nînya,_” and Findekáno could hear the gratitude in his voice. He nearly smiled to himself, warmth flaring in his heart for the first time since the battle, and even though it was fast to die he could not help but cherish it.

He finished his breakfast more or less in companionable silence with his valet, and when he had drained his mug of tea there was a knock at the door. 

“Enter,” he called, and when his callers had entered he glanced up from the crumbs of sweetbread and saw that a small army of servants had joined him. They bore the many things necessary for his imminent transformation, from pins to hair oil to the pendant that served as an emblem of office, and in the back a sturdy _ nís _ carried well-folded bundles of fabric that he greeted with heaviness in his heart.

“Ah,” he said, as much to himself as to his assembled semblance of an army. “It is time, then.” Faelion gave him a sympathetic half-smile, and he did his best to return it as he stood up and did his best to face the day with boldness.

The morning passed in frenzied activity and utter monotony. Findekáno was bathed, with more people surrounding his small tub than he believed had been present even at his birth, and when that was done he was dried off and passed from determined servant to determined servant rather like a prize bull on its way to auction. The hands of near-strangers applied lotions and oils and perfumes to his skin, and slipped him into shirt and leggings and black boots polished until they gleamed, and sat him down before his mirror. Unbraiding and drying and oiling and rebraiding his hair, a process that took Faelion the better part of a day, swept past him in six hours, and when it was done his customary plain gold wire was replaced by silver dotted with diamond and sapphire and ruby. He watched himself in his mirror as he was posed and maneuvered and manhandled, eyes shadowed and weary, and his thoughts turned as they had these past nights to the darkness of loss. Sadly, no one spoke to _ him _ in their labor; he was given far too much time to think.

There had been no news out of the East that could be seriously trusted. Grim rumor, of course, was everywhere - dragon-fire and desolation in the Gap, the northern marches broken and overrun by orcs, the people scattered and desperate - but considering that grim rumor also told him that _ he _ was slain, Findekáno elected to ignore it and wait for confirmation of their losses. At any rate, the dragon had gone there _ first _, at the fullness of its strength, and so there was certainly cause for alarm. He made up his mind to dispatch a company of mounted soldiers to investigate as soon as the morrow had dawned; it would take time, but whatever tidings they carried back would be reliable.

And then there was the matter of his heart.

He was watching as, in his mirror, a pair of _ néri _ armed with pots of facepaint and delicate brushes worked to erase all signs of stress and fatigue from his visage, and on the other side of his lifeless eyes he was frantically scrabbling for a hold on the slick black glass that walled off the part of him that was _ not _ part of him. As ever, there was silence and isolation, and while he tried to tell himself that it meant nothing he could not fight the growing dread that sought to turn the hollow of his chest to a rotted and festering thing. It was customary for him to be alone, truly alone, the bond closed off - they had decided this was best, in the face of nightmares and unexpected frights. At the time, it had seemed a necessary sacrifice.

Now it was agony, made all the worse by the losses he had suffered.

_ Are you alive? _ he thought, and felt it rebound back into him, and there were tears in his eyes and then four hands with delicate cloths to catch them before they could fall and ruin the paint on his cheeks. He sighed, and blinked, and resigned himself to the reality of his situation. He was no longer alone, and so he could not weep.

* * *

“There,” a voice he did not recognize said at last, and he was drawn up out of the half-formed mists of his thoughts. He was still staring at himself, he realized, though he was not entirely sure he recognized the image in the mirror. Gone were the hollows under his eyes, the cheekbones standing stark over sunken flesh, the mouth drawn tight with grief, the fraying braids; in their place was a handsome _ nér _who resembled nothing so much as the state portrait of Nolofinwë that hung in the entry hall and was currently covered in black. His hair gleamed, both from the jewels and the oil, his face and lips had been painted to a healthy color and contoured to catch the light well from every angle, his brows were plucked to arched perfection, and even his brown eyes were somehow brighter. 

“You look very like him,” one of the servants said kindly. Findekáno made a face, and then stopped when someone to his right gasped and he realized the paint had not set. He let his expression slip back to guarded neutrality, and the crease made by his flattened mouth was quickly corrected. 

“It is nearly midday,” Faelion said from the back of the crowd. “Can we pause long enough for him to eat something?”

“Always this focus on food,” Findekáno replied with false lightness, but he had to admit he was hungry. It was harder work than he had anticipated to be prepared to take the throne. 

The throne. 

Bile rose up in his throat. He had been very pointedly _ not _ thinking of the throne, of that afternoon’s ceremony, of the oaths and speeches he would be called to give, of the crown - his father’s crown, even now - upon his head. He fought the urge to retch, knowing that it would undo several hours’ work if he did. _ I must do this, _ he thought forcefully, and willed his _ hröa _ to obey him. _ I cannot falter, I cannot fail. Thousands look to me - tens of thousands, and they have suffered such losses, and I must be strong, I must be steadfast, I must be unshakable in the face of such devastation. _ Slowly, the nausea receded, buried beneath his flat refusal to permit it, and he realized with an odd pride that his face had not shifted enough to need correcting with the ubiquitous brushes. 

Faelion pushed through the throng of servants, a plate of sliced apples with soft cheese and nuts atop them in one hand and a goblet of clear _ nenvalaina _ in the other. Findekáno ate gladly, or as close as he could come to gladly, and when he had finished the fruit he downed the liquor in three swallows. Someone in his crowd of aides laughed, and the sound made him very nearly smile himself.

“I am ready,” he said, glancing at the folded fabric that sat on his bed. “Not ready enough? But as ready as I can be.”

This was met with silence; none of the servants seemed to know what to say, and one by one they all looked to Faelion. 

He chuckled. “Would you mind rising, then, _ haryon-nînya? _” 

“Not at all,” Findekáno answered, and got to his feet and walked away from his chair and the ever-watchful mirror. Five _ néri _ whose faces he vaguely recognized as part of his father’s retinue moved close to him, with a sixth standing by the bed and slowly unfolding each bundle of cloth before handing it off to the others. He had been dressed for court before, though not very recently; he stood with his arms outstretched and his stance relaxed to give his father’s - _ his _ \- servants freedom to work.

It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when they had finished with him. His coronation regalia, like Nolofinwë’s before him, was subdued and downright plain compared to what they had been accustomed to in Valannor, but these were lesser shores and so lesser finery was called for. _ And even if I was given the chance at proper finery, _ he thought sadly, _ I am in mourning - I cannot and will not act as if I am glad that he is gone when our anguish is shown in somber and subdued fashion. _

First had been three linen underrobes, simply made and dyed in muted shades of red and gold and blue for the three ruling houses of the Noldor. Over this was a loose-fitting fourth underrobe made of delicate white Doriathrin silk, and over _ that _was a wide-sleeved fifth robe in blue and silver damask. Findekáno recognized this last piece from his father’s own coronation, and his heart stung when he saw that it had been nearly completely swallowed with the twisting, branching coils of his people’s thick mourning embroidery. Next came a wide belt, also in silver, reaching from just under his ribs to just above his hips; this fastened tightly about his midsection with the aid of several clasps. Last of all was the pendant bearing his family’s sigil, a many-rayed star in fine slivers of gemstone and pearl and set in silver. It was quite large - as big as his hand, almost - and the heavy chain it hung from was draped over his shoulders so that it lay over his heart. Findekáno realized as his attendants finished that they were weeping, and that every other person in the room was weeping with them. It struck him that perhaps the complicated dance of preparation and ritual might be just as much for the benefit of his people as for him, and he found he could no longer be resentful. 

“You are ready,” one of the five _ néri _ said, voice somewhere between stricken and satisfied. 

Findekáno nodded, grief rising in his own throat.

“I suppose I am.”

* * *

The throne room in Barad Eithel was filled with familiar faces. Those of his father’s lords who had not perished in the battle had brought their households, and many of the more prominent elves of the city and surrounding farmlands were present with them. It was eerily silent - there were no harps and viols and uplifted voices as there had been when his father had been crowned, and the walls were draped with black rather than the banners of his house, and the people around him dressed in the somber hues of mourning. Findekáno stood in a small antechamber near the double doors that were the only entrance to the hall, this time accompanied only by Faelion and Endanáro; he could see the rows of benches through a window.

“I cannot do this,” he said softly. 

Endanáro paused in his work of arranging the blue-and-silver overrobe so that the creases and folds would fall properly, and his eyes were kind.

“I think perhaps if you were certain you _ could,_” he said, “it would mean you were wrong for the task.”

Findekáno raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

“I only mean that in the history of our people, those who have sought the crown have been the worst at actually ruling,” his father’s valet observed. “Consider Fëanáro.”

That brought the shadow of a smile to Findekáno’s lips. “I suppose you are right,” he said, and sighed. “And yet I still doubt.”

“I know,” Endanáro replied; he stood up and surveyed his work and nodded in satisfaction. Faelion, who had been working on the back of the robes, finished as well, straightening up and stepping back.

“No putting it off any longer, then,” Findekáno said, voice heavy and resigned. He glanced through the window at the hundreds of waiting spectators. “All right, open the door; I might as well get this over with.”

* * *

It was the longest and most frightful walk of his life. 

From the moment he stepped into the hall to the moment he sat down upon the intricately carved throne, every eye in the room was upon him, and the only sounds were his boots upon the floor and the beating of his own heart in his ears. He knew that if he looked at anything but his goal, he would see the mingled joy and pride and grief in the faces of his people; he kept his eyes fixed on the dais and did not turn them away. At last, he had climbed the stairs, and pivoted on his heel, and took his seat, the robes billowing around him exactly as they were meant to. _ Endanáro did well, _ he thought, and then Rániel, the chief of the council of lords and the eldest of all his family’s vassals was making her way toward him with his father’s crown on a pillow in her arms and there was no more time for thinking.

She paused, still standing to his left, and turned to face the assembled crowd as the great doors at the far end were drawn shut by two attendants.

“My lords,” she said, and the sound of her voice was sudden and surprising as it echoed through the hall, “my ladies, we are gathered here today in sorrow and in joy.” Findekáno was suddenly glad that this had been such a rushed affair - any longer and undoubtedly Thingol would have sent a representative to bear witness, and the ceremony would have had to be in Sindarin or risk a war. 

“Our beloved King has fallen,” Rániel continued, and Findekáno could hear the sound of soft weeping somewhere in the crowd. “His son now stands in his place, to be acclaimed as his successor.” She gestured to him with one hand; he watched her evenly. “He is known to us his people, both as a loyal servant of the realm and as a prince of great valor and renown. Can any now stand before the assemblages of the Noldor and claim he is unfit to rule?”

_ Turukáno ought to be here to do this, _ Findekáno thought, letting himself ignore the silence and the eyes pinning him to the stone, _ as I was there for Atya. My thanks, brother, for leaving me to face this miserable exercise alone and without a single one of my siblings by my side. _ Again, his heart turned toward the East, and again he willed it to be silent; he could not deny, however, that this would be far more bearable with his husband beside him.

There were no voices, no movements; Rániel’s request for a challenger had gone unanswered as he knew it would. She turned her attention back to him, and this time addressed him directly.

“_Haryon-nînya,_” she said, “what say you? Will you give yourself to the realm in service, and lead your people as your father did before you?”

Findekáno took a deep breath and nodded, eyes never leaving the crowd before him. 

“I will,” he said. “If they will have me.”

“And will you have him?” Rániel asked, herself speaking to the crowd again. For a frightful moment, there was more silence - when his father had been crowned, there had been cheers, and cries of _ yes! _ and _ long may he reign! _ from the people; in the wake of heavy loss, such things seemed distant and inappropriate. _ I know they wish for me to rule, _ Findekáno thought, _ but what if they cannot be joyful? _

Then, as one, the rest of the lords of the council rose to their feet, drew their right arms up across their chests, and knelt, heads bowed. Once that was done, those behind their bench mirrored them, _ néri _ and _ níssi _ alike rising only to kneel in deference, and it spread back until the whole of the hall besides Rániel was on the polished floor. She was clearly surprised, but recovered well; even the tears in her eyes seemed to vanish in an instant. An attendant in royal livery appeared from somewhere and took the pillow from her, leaving her holding the crown.

“You have given your answer,” she said to the room at large, and then looked at Findekáno. He nodded; she crossed the distance between them until she was immediately at his left.

“Thus do I crown you,” she intoned, and set the heavy circle of silver and gemstones upon his head. “Astaldo, Findekáno Nolofinwion, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea.” Unprompted, and as one, the crowd of onlookers rose to its feet. There was no applause, but he could feel their pride and jubilant satisfaction in the midst of tragedy. He looked at Rániel out of the corner of his eye; she was smiling and the tears had returned.

“Now,” she said, voice lighter and pitched to carry around the hall, “which of the lords of our people shall be the first to swear fealty to their new King?”

There was a resounding _ boom _ at the back of the chamber as the two great doors were pushed open; they thudded against the pale stone and the sound echoed through the whole of the room. Suddenly, Findekáno realized that no one was looking at _ him _ anymore - the attention of the crowd had turned to watch the figure striding down between the rows of benches, retracing the same path he had taken minutes before. It was a _ nér, _ clad in dark traveling clothes, glove tucked into his sword-belt, moving quickly, head and shoulders above all others, and when he drew back his hood with one hand his hair was a brilliant red - 

\- he sprang up from the throne, heart pounding, mouth going dry, and sharp joy more keen than any sorrow seemed to pierce him through the heart as he took two steps down the stairs and was forced to stop before he tripped over his own boots.

“I shall,” said Nelyafinwë Russandol Maitimo Fëanárion, coming to a halt below the dais and meeting his gaze with what might have been a smirk on a happier day. “For I, and my brothers after me, remain loyal vassals to the Crown.” 

Findekáno realized there were tears in his eyes. He stood motionless, two steps above Maitimo, and for the first time in his life he was taller than his husband. For a moment, he wondered what he was waiting for, and then he realized with a jolt of shock that _ he _ was the High King and therefore it was _ his _ responsibility to speak. He swallowed an awkward smile, shoulders shaking, and when he saw the gleam of amusement in Maitimo’s eye at his obvious discomfiture he nearly laughed aloud. 

_ No, _ he thought pointedly in the direction of his husband, _ this is serious, be _serious.

_ All right, then, _ Maitimo answered, their bond opening just enough for him to answer. _ I shall be serious. _

Findekáno realized suddenly that they had been staring at each other for nearly a full minute, and he quickly spoke aloud. “If you are loyal to the Crown, my lord Nelyafinwë, then that Crown awaits your oath of service.” He very nearly blushed as he spoke, heart pounding, the weight of the order heavy on his tongue. But he did not falter, even when his husband met his gaze, even when he glimpsed those silver eyes full of some intense emotion he could not name and it made him more than a little weak in the knees. 

Maitimo looked at him, still withdrawn into himself but burning nonetheless; Findekáno was vaguely aware of the fact that they were simply staring at one another again, and he could not be bothered to care. There was something deep, and yearning, and _ vital, _ about his husband’s expression, as if he were struggling with some fell and tremendous burden. But at last the light in his eyes cooled.

“The Crown shall have my oath,” he said, voice low and rasping, and he sank to his knees. 

Findekáno was speechless, hot and cold and hot again in quick succession. _ You - you _ never _ kneel, _ he thought at his husband, but he was saved from gaping like a dying fish by Maitimo’s next words.

“Here do I swear fealty to this the High King of the Noldor East of the Sea,” he said, head bowed, still kneeling. “In life and in death, from this hour henceforth until my lord release me from my bonded word. If by my living or by my dying I can do your will, I shall; may my service be a credit to your office and a tribute to your reign.”

Heat pooled in Findekáno’s hips as he stared incredulously at the scene before him, mingling with sparks of emotion he was only half-conscious of, and suddenly there was a painful pressure against his leggings and he was quite glad that his robes were as loose as they were. 

_ You never kneel, _ he thought again, eyes wide, and suddenly Maitimo looked up and met his gaze a final time.

_ I kneel for you, _ his husband said, and he knew he was going to blush before it happened.


	2. Who Can Lie Idle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out, like all my long-form projects, to be about 33% longer than I had intended. There will be one more chapter, with all the good bits at the end - in the meantime, enjoy!

Afterwards, the afternoon passed more or less as anticipated, a long stream of various major and minor nobles approaching the throne one by one to make their own oaths of fealty and service. Findekáno got the distinct impression that the fourteen members of his council were annoyed by Maitimo’s unannounced display of loyalty - it was customary for them to be the first to swear themselves to the High King, usually with ever-growing promises and demonstrations of their unswerving devotion - but in truth there was little they could do save satisfy themselves with competing against each other. Maitimo, in turn, had more or less vanished once his oath was made; Findekáno wondered what was so important that he had to step away from the rest of his own husband’s coronation.

But at last, after many hours of sitting and smiling and inventing new variations on the words ‘thank you,’ he was free to be his own _ nér _ once more, for a little while. The servants had been busy even as he had, moving his wardrobe and his belongings out of his room on the second floor and into his father’s suite on the third; when he asked Faelion to accompany him to his new chambers he was surprised at how quickly the move had been accomplished. When he properly entered into what was now his official residence he was more than a little overwhelmed. He had been in his father’s rooms before, but he had never truly looked at them and he had not seen everything. 

What had been Nolofinwë’s suite took up most of the right side of the third-floor hall. Entering by the door brought Findekáno into an elegant sitting room, the walls lined with bookshelves and the two chairs facing the fireplace. This was the room he was most familiar with, as he had spent many hours there in council with his father. Beyond it was the bedroom, large and spacious with a fireplace of its own. The bed was far larger than the one that had been his own, almost the size of his parents’ bed in Valannor that had been able to hold all of them at once when he was small. He wondered idly what he was supposed to do with so much space, and then considered how many mornings his father had spent somewhere between eating and reading reports and holding court and decided that the larger the bed, the better.

The contents of his closet had been moved to their new home as well, and when he stepped into the much larger wardrobe space he realized with a shock that nearly all of his father’s clothes were still in their places. Most of his father’s personal effects had not been moved regardless of their location, in fact; as the five-year mourning period wore on they would be gradually taken out of sight and stored away. But seeing Nolofinwë’s tunics and trousers and robes was still enough to bring him to tears, and he sent Faelion to draw him a bath while he wept. Once there were no more tears to shed, he examined what was before him. His father had never been quite as ostentatious in dress as he was - _ no one _ in the court at Barad Eithel was quite as ostentatious in dress as he was - and yet Nolofinwë’s clothes were of good make and fine quality, and he had been taller and broader than Findekáno himself. _ If I am to be High King, _ he thought, _ especially in this time of need, it would be wiser to have these altered to fit than to waste the material on crafting me an entirely new wardrobe. _ He spent a few moments assessing which pieces he wished to preserve and which would be incorporated into his own collection, and then Faelion returned to tell him the tub was filling. 

“Good,” he said, and almost smiled in relief at the thought of warm water and a proper soak. “Now - can we undress me?”

He walked out of the wardrobe space, and his valet set to work at removing him from his many layers. Off came the crown and pendant, set aside to be carried away and returned to their places with the rest of the treasures that marked his office, and then the belt and the overrobe followed.

“I feel rather like a doll,” Findekáno admitted, and winced at the sudden freedom of movement. “Please tell me I do not have to wear that always.”

“No,” Faelion answered, folding the damasked garment carefully. “You will need to dress _ well _ for court, but thankfully I think you are allowed some freedom in that regard.”

“Thank the Valar,” he muttered, and Faelion laughed softly as he finished folding.

“According to Endanáro, your father was the same way.”

“Any sane _ elda _ would be.”

“Perhaps,” his valet replied, and returned to him and helped him out of the four underrobes one after the other. “Though between the two of us, I think your cousin Galadriel would probably wear this every chance she had.”

Findekáno burst out laughing. It was not truly _ funny, _ merely _ amusing, _ but he had not truly laughed since his father’s disappearance and it felt good. He sat down on the side of his bed and pulled off his boots as Faelion folded the last of his regalia, leaving himself in plain white shirt and grey leggings and dark stockings.

“I almost feel normal again,” he commented, glancing down at his plain clothes. “Once I wash my face and have a decent sleep I think I _ shall _ feel normal again. Or, as normal as I can be.” He groaned and lay back on the bed, instantly grateful for its size that meant he could be more or less comfortable while Faelion folded and arranged. “Damn,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

“What is it?” his valet asked as he worked. 

“I am High King of the Noldor.”

“You are.”

“Can I escape?”

“By dying.”

“Damn,” he said again, suddenly acutely aware of the utter loneliness of his position and even more aware of his husband’s absence. There were more tears in his eyes; he wiped them away with one arm and then grimaced when his sleeve came up smeared with paint. He sat up and glanced around the room. “Where is my mirror? I ought to wash my face.”

“In there,” Faelion said, and gestured toward a brightly-lit door. “There is an anteroom before the bathroom proper; your things are there.”

Findekáno nodded and got up, rounding the bed. “When you have finished with this, you are dismissed, by the way,” he said, and put a hand on Faelion’s shoulder. His expression, despite the ruined paint, was kind and sincere. “You have done well today. Thank you.”

“It has been an honor, _ aran-nînya, _” Faelion replied, and Findekáno’s heart thudded in his chest. He swallowed hard, and forced a faint smile.

“Still. Thank you.” 

He turned back toward the light, stepping through the door. The anteroom was roughly the size of the sitting room, and he realized that the mirror in it was not _ his _ mirror (except, of course, it was) but a large three-paned thing with a spacious table beneath it and a stool. Stone lamps were set into the wall around it at strategic angles, so that no matter how he craned his head there was no shadow, and Findekáno was impressed. 

_ Being High King may not be entirely terrible, _he decided, and sat down. Faelion had been here, as well as the bathroom - bottles of soap and water and astringent cleansing tonic were laid out beside a pile of neatly folded white handkerchiefs. He opened the soap, and poured a palmful out into his hand, and started working it into his cheeks and forehead.

“I am done,” Faelion called from the bedchamber. “Are you going to retire, then?” 

“Yes,” Findekáno answered back, his face covered in white lather. “I am. And I do not wish to be bothered by anyone.” _ Except my husband, but _ he _ is Eru knows where. _

“I take my leave of you, then, _ aran-nînya, _” Faelion said. “The robes and the crown and the pendant are coming with me; I will see they are put away.”

“Thank you,” Findekáno said, “and do see if you can get some rest.”

“I will,” his valet answered, and a few moments later he heard the bedroom door close. He sighed - _ where _ are _ you, Russo? _\- and kept working on his face.

When he had finished, the now-familiar haggard eyes were staring at him once again. He shook his head and got back to his feet. The water was still running, though he doubted the still-unseen tub had filled, and so he went back into the bedroom to seek out something to wear to sleep. In this, at least, his valet had failed him; there was nothing waiting on the bed for him to slip into post-bath. He frowned, and thought for a moment, and then there were footsteps on the other side of the bedroom door.

“Did you forget something?” he asked, though even as he spoke he knew it was very unlike Faelion to forget anything. 

“Only that the High King has a small army of servants dedicated to keeping lowly vassals like myself far from your hallowed presence,” said Maitimo, shuttling the bedroom door behind him. 

Findekáno spun on his heel. “Where have you _ been? _” he cried indignantly. “A fine husband you are, leaving me to face the court like that!”

“I am sorry,” Maitimo said, and it was clear he meant it. He crossed the room until he was close enough to reach out and touch. “Truly. I never meant to be away for more than an hour or so.”

“What happened?”

“We had no news of you,” Maitimo answered, “not since I managed to wake you that morning and warn you of the dragon. I feared the worst, and so as soon as I could I gathered threescore of my fastest riders and we rode without ceasing from Himring to here.” 

“Without ceasing?” Findekáno asked. “How?”

“One of my captains, Carnimeldë, is a skilled bard,” Maitimo said. “She sang the weariness from our limbs and kept our horses moving.” He sighed, and shivered. “I have not closed my eyes in fourteen days, and yet I could not sleep if I tried.”

“What does this have to do with your absence?”

“I am getting to that, if you will let me.”

“All right, go on.”

Maitimo shifted his weight and continued. “We reached Barad Eithel near midday. I dispatched my riders to seek out the captain of the capital guard and to offer aid where they could. That is where I went after, by the way - to ensure they were cared for and housed, and then when I tried to seek you out I was rebuffed time and again by well-meaning staff.”

“I imagine they are used to such things.”

“Perhaps, but it was still nearly impossible - I had to sneak after one of them to find your room, and then I hid until I knew we would be alone.”

“I suppose I can forgive you, then,” Findekáno said. “But what happened to you? How did you come to stand before my throne?”

“I went into the city and found out that Nolofinwë was - that he had left us.” There was sorrow and misery in his husband’s words, and he looked up and found him near to weeping. 

“I feared you were slain,” Findekáno said, and Maitimo shivered again and his resolve nearly broke. “I called for you, sought out our bond, and there was nothing save silence!”

“I was a coward,” his husband answered. “I feared that if Nolofinwë was dead, then _ you _ were dead with him, or - or worse.” He met his husband’s gaze, tears welling in his eyes. “I am sorry, truly sorry - I could not bear to think that - !”

“Maitimo,” Findekáno answered, and reached up and drew the taller _ nér _ down to him for a kiss. His mouth was soft, and warm, and a welcome anchor in the storm that had become his life. He felt their bond give just enough for speech; he wrapped it around himself and clung to it as they embraced. 

“I am here, as you can see,” Findekáno said when they broke apart. 

“And you look awful,” Maitimo answered with a laugh. “But I am sure I looked as bad when my own father died.”

“My thanks, _ husband_,” he retorted. “Though I have still seen you looking the worst.”

“You cut me to the bone, my King,” Maitimo said lightly.

“You learned I was alive, then?” Findekáno continued. “When you went into the city. Why else would you have come to the palace?”

“I learned the new High King was being crowned. I hoped it was you.”

“And then it _ was _ me.”

“And then it was you,” Maitimo agreed, and they were very near to one another, and the heat was back in his voice and his eyes were burning again. 

Findekáno pulled him close once more and kissed him, this time fierce and hot and hungry as his hands draped over broad shoulders and tangled in red hair. His eyes slid shut, and his tongue was in Maitimo’s mouth, and his hip wedged itself between his husband’s legs and rode against the very promising bulge there. 

Maitimo moaned into yet another kiss, his right arm holding Findekáno to him and his left somewhere between waist and hip. 

“I wish I could atone for my absence,” he said, voice very nearly playful. “I did swear myself to you, after all.” He bent his head down and let his lips graze over Findekáno’s neck. 

“You did,” his husband answered with equal levity, a low moan on the edge of every word, “and it is a poor vassal who abandons his lord in his hour of need.”

“It is,” Maitimo agreed, and his teeth caught the edge of Findekáno’s earlobe and drew a moan from its owner. “And I would make reparations, if you will permit it.”

Findekáno laughed, low and sultry, and pushed his arms down. Despite the awkward angle, it was easy to bring the taller _ nér _ to his knees a second time. He threaded the fingers of his left hand through Maitimo’s hair, guiding him back to rest against his thigh.

“Go on, then, first and most loyal of my many servants,” he said, and the proof of his arousal was very near to the pale face at his hips. “Do honor to your King.”

Maitimo turned his head, nuzzling into Findekáno’s leg. He was already undoing the buttons of his husband’s fly; when they were open, it was easy to draw the leather aside and take the flesh he had bared into his hand. He let himself linger there, for a moment, breathing in the scent of his lord and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the place where hip and thigh met. Findekáno tensed; he smiled and ran his lips over his King for a little longer as the weight in his hand shifted and twitched. _ You are intoxicating, _ he thought, and opened their bond enough to let his own desires rebound against the arousal he felt rolling off of the other _ nér _. Findekáno moaned, left hand clutching at his hair, overcome both by sensation and by sudden intimacy.

At last, Maitimo turned his mouth to the base of his husband’s cock, kissing and softly sucking, stroking up and down and running his thumb over its swollen head. Findekáno had been nearly hard before, but the first touch of lips on skin was enough to coax him into true erection. Maitimo moaned himself at the feel of it against his cheek, letting his eyes slip shut as he pressed himself to it again and again, tongue and lips and fingers and teeth giving service. Almost before he realized it, he was licking up the underside of the shaft, slow and warm; the hand in his hair seized and its grip grew tight almost to the point of pain.

Maitimo chuckled. _ Is this too much for you? _ he asked silently, letting the head of the cock he was servicing fall into his mouth. His lips closed around the warm flesh; he sighed and moaned with pleasure as he began to suck. Findekáno moaned as well, knees almost buckling, and he felt the answer in the brilliant blazing need of the other _ nér _ through their marriage-bond as _ nómilt _ dripped onto his tongue. His right arm wrapped around the backs of Findekáno’s legs, keeping him upright; his left was pressed against his King’s thigh as its hand resumed its stroking. 

_ Easy, melindo, _ he thought, and let his husband fall out of his mouth so he could press a few more kisses to the flesh he had been servicing. _ I have you. _

_ Then stop teasing and suck me off, _Findekáno replied, his arousal evident. 

_ Mm, _ Maitimo said, still kissing and stroking, _ is that an order, your Majesty? _

_ Yes. _

His mouth opened for another kiss, and Findekáno’s right hand joined the left, grasping his hair and pulling him down until his face was pressed against soft skin. Maitimo groaned, pliant beneath his lord, and settled against the other _ nèr _, sucking and licking and swallowing. His tongue ran over Findekáno in slow circles, and every new sigh or whimper or breathy gasp he drew from his husband’s lips was as a summoning bell, calling him to lose himself in service; he tasted salt and sweat and musk and found he could not hold back a second more. Heat surged up between them, reverberating across the threads of silverblue and coppergold that linked them more than this joining ever could, and he loosed his inhibitions with a low and needy groan and let himself devour his King. 

He settled into an easy rhythm, head moving up and down, clinging to Findekáno even as Findekáno clung to him. His hunger, now it was kindled, was all-consuming; he knew that it would not be long before their mingling desires were sated. Again and again he took the whole of his husband down his throat, swallowing and licking and sucking; he was dimly aware that on the other side of his thoughts was a building tension like a bow being strung. He let his eyes slip shut, mouth against the base of his lord’s shaft, and waited. 

Findekáno came hard, a half-smothered cry escaping despite his best efforts, and they were both pulled into a blaze of light and color and dizzy intensity. On his knees, Maitimo swallowed, and swallowed a second time, letting his King spill his seed into his vassal’s eager mouth. The world seemed to ripple and surge around them, shifting until they were the epicenter of a tight knot of sensation; they were motionless, leaning on one another, breathless and bleeding out into their bond until it was hard to tell which of them had two hands.

At last, after a moment or an eternity, Maitimo opened his eyes and found himself in his own body. Findekáno was in his mouth still, growing softer by the second; he drew his head back and relaxed against the leg he had been leaning on. 

_ Better? _ he asked, and when he felt an answering warmth he nuzzled into his husband’s thigh.

_ Much, _ Findekáno answered silently, and sighed, letting the tension he had been carrying for most of the day seep out of him. _ I have sorely missed you. _

_ Not just for this, I hope, _Maitimo retorted, and when Findekáno only chuckled in response he reached up with his hand and gave a playful shove to his King’s other hip. His mirth ended suddenly as the two of them stumbled and fell backwards, knocked off balance and tumbling to the floor - he had forgotten, in the rush of release, that his right arm was wrapped about his husband’s legs. 

They landed hard, tangled up in one another; Findekáno was laughing even before he hit the floor, and he lay back and stared up at the ceiling and felt the weight of grief begin to unspool within him. 

“Come up here,” he said at last, breathless and breezy, “and let me kiss you. I would be nothing more than your husband for a while; I have had enough of being King, I think.”

“Oh you _ have? _ ” Maitimo asked, disentangling himself from Findekáno’s legs and awkwardly crawling up over the other _ nér _ until they were more or less face to face. “You did not seem to think it so awful a moment ago.”

Findekáno rolled his eyes, but he was still laughing when Maitimo kissed him. He tasted himself on his husband’s tongue, and it made him shiver for reasons he could not name, and then they were embracing and grasping at hair and shoulder and shirt and very little mattered beyond that. Time blurred into a string of unending moments, and his back was arching up, and there were lips and teeth at his neck, his collarbone, his chest - 

\- Maitimo stopped, all at once, tense and hesitant. 

“What is it?” Findekáno asked, frowning.

Maitimo frowned back at him. “Do I hear running water?”

“_Ai, muk_!” he swore, and sat up so quickly that Maitimo had to jerk away to keep their heads from knocking together. “The bath!”

“You were drawing a bath this whole time?” his husband asked, standing up and offering his hand. Findekáno took it and rose off of the floor himself.

“Faelion began it,” he explained, “and then in the midst of… everything… I rather forgot.”

“Let us hope we have not caused a small flood, then,” Maitimo said with a laugh, and they both made their way through the mirrored antechamber and into the bathroom proper. But as soon as they stepped through the doorway, they stopped dead in their tracks.

The bathroom that had been Nolofinwë’s was immense, easily half the size of the bedroom behind it. Every inch of it was carved from white limestone, from ceiling to floor, and it was well lit by the same sort of stone lamps that illuminated the rest of the suite. Immediately before them was a washbasin set in a long slab of stone, with carved spaces beneath it that held towels and various soaps and a collection of leather thongs for tying back hair; there was another mirror above it anchored to the wall. To the left was a folded wooden screen shielding what Findekáno guessed was the commode, and to the right… 

“Atya was bathing in _ this?_” he asked incredulously. 

“Don’t ask me,” Maitimo said. He had moved to examine the nook behind the screen. “I know nothing of your late father’s bathing habits. This is an excellent commode, by the way.”

“Ah, yes,” Findekáno said acerbically, not looking at his husband. “Exactly what I am thinking of right now.”

“Be grateful,” Maitimo said, moving back into the bathroom proper. “When we’re besieged in the northern marches, _ we _ have to use chamber pots. And - _ ercamando, _ is _ this _ the bath?”

It was, as far as Findekáno could tell. The entire right side of the room was taken up with it - a recessed pool set in the floor, with steps leading down into the water. A carved bench curved around the back half, and the floor sloped down beyond it, with the deepest point in the center over the drain. He guessed the water would come up to his shoulders if he stood over the metal grate and the bath was filled completely, which it very nearly was. 

Maitimo was closest to the brass faucet and its valve, and he shut off the water; neither of them spoke. They could see the steam rising up out of the pool; a sudden yearning to sink into the promised warmth rose up in tandem with it, and neither of them were quite sure whose feeling it was.

“I suppose being High King does have its… perks,” Findekáno said lamely. 

“Ha!” Maitimo laughed, though it was not quite a laugh. “I cannot blame Nolofinwë for keeping this a secret.” 

“Neither can I,” he answered, and stripped out of his unbuttoned leggings, pulling his stockings off with them. His shirt was next; he bundled it up with the rest of his clothes and tossed the lot of them into a corner. “Join me,” he said, and looked over his shoulder at his husband. “I can feel the weariness and the aches of the journey on you, my love; I would do what I can to ease that, and a soak would do you good.”

“Bold of you to assume either of us will be _ soaking_,” Maitimo said, but he was already pulling off his tunic. Findekáno laughed, and stepped into the bath, and before he could stop himself a satisfied moan escaped his lips. 

“_Oh,_” he said, the word barely more than a groan. “Oh, I am in bliss. Pass me a tie for my hair; this is real silver and not worth getting wet.” 

Maitimo chuckled, handing him a strip of leather retrieved from the washbasin. “The wealth of the realm is yours,” he said, “and you are worried about a few bits of wire?”

“I would not undo the work of so many hands,” Findekáno answered, and he drew his many braids up and into a knot at the back of his head and tied them in place. “And the wealth of the realm must be concentrated on rebuilding, and fortifying, and - and revenge, if we can get it.”

“Revenge?” Maitimo asked, stepping out of his boots and pulling off trousers and stockings until he, too, was bare. “That would be…” His voice trailed off as he thought; a grim light came into his eyes. “That would be more than I could hope for.”

“Then let us hope, for a while,” Findekáno answered, stepping deeper into the bath. “It is a day of new beginnings, much as I may resent that.” 

“Come now,” Maitimo replied with a smirk. “New beginnings are not entirely awful - they often come with small celebrations of their own.”

“Soak first,” Findekáno said firmly, now chest-deep in hot water. “Celebrate later.”

“As my King commands,” Maitimo said, and laughed when Findekáno tried and failed to splash him. He kicked his own clothes to one side and followed his husband down into the bath.


	3. May They Be Blessed

As soon as the warmth hit his skin, Maitimo felt the tension in him begin to unwind. He groaned low in his throat, taking the steps down as quickly as he could, and when he was deep enough he took a breath and submerged himself totally. After a few moments, he rose with a toss of his head, sending red hair arcing back and scattering droplets of water everywhere. 

“I have not had a bath since before the dragon,” he sighed, “and it has been longer still since it was truly hot.” 

“Perhaps it ought to be you who is High King,” Findekáno jested, “and then this can be yours.”

“ _ Never _ ,” Maitimo answered with mock horror, wading over to where his husband stood. “I have enough that I must endure. I would rather swallow nails again than take that crown from you.” 

“Again?” Findekáno asked, confused, and when Maitimo’s eyes turned dark and serious he swallowed his sudden horror and forced himself to smile. “Well, you will neither have to eat nails nor assume the throne, my love, but wash up, and then I insist you let me work on your back and shoulders a little.” 

“I do not need it,” the other  _ nér _ protested, but at his husband’s words something in him sagged and relaxed even more.

“You do,” Findekáno replied as Maitimo seized a bottle of soap from a ledge near where he stood and began to scrub off the filth of a fortnight’s riding. He turned and made his way to the far side of the bath and its high bench. “You’ve left yourself open enough that I can feel the pain in you; now I am with you I should like to try and ease it.”

Maitimo frowned. “I am in pain?” he asked, assessing himself and finding only the usual aches. 

“Yes,” Findekáno said, and got up onto the bench as his husband picked up another bottle and emptied what was left of its contents onto the top of his head. He rolled his eyes - he almost envied Maitimo the ease with which he managed to clean his too-straight red hair - and beckoned to the other  _ nér. _ “All right, rinse off and then come here.” Another dunk beneath the surface of the water and the soap was running down pale skin and chiseled muscle in thin rivulets, and he let his eyes rest on shoulders and arms before gesturing with one hand. “Turn around - let me get at your back?” 

“Fine,” Maitimo sighed, and moved so that his back was to his husband. “But I don’t -  _ oh… _ ” His voice trailed off into an almost carnal moan as Findekáno’s fingers sank into his right shoulder, probing through muscle and bone and finding a knot the size of a walnut almost instantly.

“I told you so” the other  _ nér _ said, and his smirk was audible.

“Shut up and don’t stop,” Maitimo said, head tilting back as the tension unspooled from his chest. “Oh,  _ Valar, Eru, _ this is - ”

“Good?” 

“Better than sex.”

Findekáno chuckled, and both his hands were working at the muscle now. “So you will not complain if we only ever do  _ this _ going forward?”

“It is you I am talking to,” Maitimo retorted. “I cannot even  _ pretend _ to believe you are serious.”

Findekáno laughed, a shrill sharp bark of a sound, and kissed the top of his head. “You know me too well,” he admitted, and then braced his right hand against the top of Maitimo’s shoulder and pulled back while his left hand rested just to one side of his spine and pushed forward. There was a  _ pop _ , followed by a deep  _ crack _ from somewhere inside the joint, and Maitimo let out a low, guttural moan of relief.

“What  _ was _ that?” he asked.

“You haven’t been wearing your brace, have you?” Findekáno asked in return.

“What?”

“Your shoulder was out of alignment, and I daresay I put the whole thing back into socket. You haven’t been wearing your brace.”

“I loathe the thing,” Maitimo said, and there was more than a hint of a grumble in his voice. “It makes me feel like I’ve been put into some sort of dreadful restraint.”

“Well, it is either the dreadful restraint, or… oh,” Findekáno said, his own voice dying quickly as he felt his husband shift and stiffen beneath his hands. “Oh.” 

“What is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” Maitimo asked.

Findekáno grimaced, forced a smile onto his lips, and hoped that it would turn genuine. “It means,” he said with false cheer, “that you shall have to visit me often, so I might do this more than once a century.” 

There was a moment of silence and tension thick enough to be cut through by a dull knife, and then his husband sighed. 

“I shall have to visit more often,” he said, rolling his shoulders back. There was a hint of good humor in his voice. “You are a welcome distraction from the marches.”

“I should hope so!” Findekáno answered. “Unless the marches are as alluring as I am.”

“Oh, yes,” Maitimo replied, and this time his smile was evident in how he spoke. “From my window, I can look and see the shape of a very attractive backside formed by the mountains. It keeps me company in my lonely nights.”

It was Findekáno’s turn to playfully shove his husband, though this time no one toppled to the floor. Maitimo yelped, and then pivoted on his heel and shoved back, splashing the other  _ nér _ with water. Findekáno shrieked indignantly, but Maitimo was laughing, even when his King was remarkably undignified and splashed him in retaliation with such force that he lost his footing on the bench and nearly slid under the surface of the water. 

“Easy!” Maitimo said, and stepped in close to catch him, and by the time that he was standing more or less solidly on the floor of the bath they were kissing again. His hands were on Maitimo’s shoulders, and after a few moments he pushed himself up so he could wrap his legs around his husband’s waist and sit more or less eye to eye with him. 

“Oh, I  _ like _ this,” he said. “It is a nice change from always looking up to you.” 

Maitimo rolled his eyes. “Am I to carry you everywhere, then?”

“What better way to serve your King?” Findekáno asked, and they kissed once more, and when they broke apart it was Maitimo who was smirking. 

“I can think of a few ways,” he said. “Unfortunately, they’re not better than sex, so perhaps we ought to go back to your hands on my back.” 

“Once we get out of the bath, maybe,” Findekáno said, “but until then…”

“Until then?” Maitimo asked, and he raised an eyebrow high enough that Findekáno burst out laughing and kissed him again, tongue sliding into his mouth. He rolled his hips against his husband, drawing a low moan from both of them, and his already-spent cock twitched at the friction. He could feel the other  _ nér _ growing hard beneath him, and he grinned and let his legs part so he could slip his hand between them to grasp and stroke. 

Maitimo moaned again, and his knees sagged and failed, and before Findekáno could disentangle himself from pale arms they had both fallen under the water.  _ So much for my hair, _ he thought, but he was not bitter, and his hand was still moving up and down, and his husband’s hips were bucking up into his fingers. But at last they had to breathe, and when they surfaced they were both gasping for air, and yet the warmth of lips and tongue was too intoxicating to resist; their hearts were pounding until each beat felt like the echo of the one that came before. And always he was stroking, stroking, stroking - 

\- when Maitimo came, it was unexpected, dragging both of them into bright bliss once more, and Findekáno’s own cock was aching and hard again, and the gasping cry on the air was his own name spoken with both their voices, and the lips that had been on his trailed down over chin and neck and collarbone, and his head fell back to give the hungry mouth against his skin better access.

_ Grinding Ice, _ Maitimo swore at last,  _ that was -  _ muk!

He had taken a step, and his knees gave out a second time, and they both fell into the water again. This time, Findekáno freed himself ably, and seized his husband by the hand and pulled him back up into the air.

“We are not doing this in the bath again,” he said.

“We are definitely doing this in the bath again,” Maitimo replied, weary and satisfied, and he laughed. 

“And get  _ milt _ everywhere?” Findekáno asked, eyeing the steps up out of the pool. “I am not staying here any longer than I - !”

Maitimo interrupted him, humming a low and nearly tuneless phrase of notes; the water shifted and rippled around them, and the pale and cloudy stain vanished from where it floated. When he stopped, he glanced at Findekáno, who had raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“I know two songs,” he said by way of explanation, “a song of cleansing and a song of death.”

“Ignoring the death,” Findekáno said, “how did you know that would work?” 

His husband grinned. “I’m quite fond of baths, and the nights are lonely and cold in the mountains without you to warm me, and I  _ do _ have one hand left.”

Findekáno blushed hotly, images of Maitimo half-reclined in one of Himring’s small stone tubs with his hand on his cock flooding his thoughts. The smile before him grew dark with desire, and he remembered far too late that his mind was anything but private; he stepped back and found himself pressed against the stone bench with pale arms and legs encircling him and a hungry mouth at his collarbone a second time. 

_ I want to be inside you, _ Maitimo thought as teeth and tongue grazed over his flesh, and the blazing heat of it made him shiver.  _ I will not wait another minute. _

Findekáno moaned yet again, and his body sagged onto the bench, legs parting and back arching up as he went limp. Maitimo was on top of him, kissing and grasping, easing onto the flat seat, one knee pushing his thighs even further apart as hands and mouth more or less devoured him. Their bond flared to full life in his mind once again, drowning him in sensation and need; he moaned softly and let his head fall back against the wall _ . _ Maitimo’s right arm was about his waist, pulling him close, and there were teeth at his collarbone, and then the creeping sensation of fingers working their way along his thigh to his hips. 

_ “Ercanyë,”  _ he murmured, gasping, and he heard his husband chuckle from somewhere under his jaw.

“Oh, I plan to,” Maitimo answered, and there was a low edge to his voice that set Findekáno trembling. “If you are merely my husband, and not my King, there is much we might do to pass the time.” 

“Such as?” Findekáno asked, and he was answered with a kiss to the sensitive flesh behind his ear and fingers wrapping around his cock. He moaned, his body going limp, and Maitimo’s right arm pulled him closer to a torso far broader than his own, and his head fell back against his shoulders, and then he was suddenly  _ not _ on the bench anymore -

“What?” he murmured, the long  _ a _ of the word drawing out into yet another moan as Maitimo’s left hand dipped deeper between his legs to tease at his entrance. 

“Let’s get you into bed,” his husband answered, voice low and hot and hungry. “See if we can’t undo you a little. You’re far too uptight to be High King.”

“You are fishing for excuses,” Findekáno retorted, but he couldn’t help laughing and leaning up to kiss Maitimo yet again as the taller  _ nér _ managed to get up out of the bath while still carrying him. The few steps from the bathroom to the bed passed in a blur of sensation that bled out from the edges of their bond, but eventually they were half-tangled in linen sheets, and Maitimo was leaning against the headboard and Findekáno was leaning against Maitimo, and there was a right arm keeping him pinned while its much-missed twin returned to its work of probing and teasing. There was a bottle of hair oil lying beside them on the bed - between kissing and biting and caressing, one of them had managed to find it - and he could feel its contents on the fingers running over the skin between his thighs, massaging and coaxing.

_ Come on, Finno,  _ came the thought in his head.  _ Open up for me.  _

He whimpered, and sighed, and shifted against his husband’s hand impatiently.  _ You’re the one doing the work, _ he remarked, and was rewarded with a low prickle of arousal from the other side of their bond.  _ You’re setting the pace. _

_ I am, come to think of it, _ Maitimo answered.  _ It doesn’t mean I can’t work you over.  _

_ Tease, _ he said, and in response there was a sharp pain of teeth against his ear and a solid  _ hold still _ in his mind that was more of an emotion than a true command. He sighed and went limp against the other  _ nér, _ letting his legs part even more. His husband rarely led in this fashion, but when he did, he had a way of getting what he wanted.

When the first finger at last slipped inside him, Findekáno gasped, and groaned, and tried to push back and take it deeper. Maitimo’s arm held him fast, keeping him still; he sighed as a frustrated whine fought its way up from his throat. 

_ More, _ he thought, and it bled out through the fire in his mind until the both of them were sparking and desperate and he could feel his husband hard against his skin.

_ Slowly, _ Maitimo answered, somehow firm and resolved despite his obvious need, and began to move his hand, letting it do the work of opening Findekáno up.  _ I thought I lost you. Let me have this. _

“Russo…” he moaned, one of his hands twisting behind his back in a futile effort to find and stroke the cock that was even now hard and hot on his thigh. Again he was halted by a gentle bite, this time to the underside of his jaw. 

“None of that,” Maitimo said, and in that moment Findekáno remembered just how much  _ larger _ the other  _ nér _ was than he himself, and he shuddered as a fresh wave of arousal left him erect and aching. “None of that. This is about  _ you. _ ”

He moaned again, and angled his head back so that the teeth at his throat could mark him up; they obliged eagerly. 

_ Oh, I could devour you, _ his husband thought, and this brought out yet another needy whine from his lips. Findekáno could catch flashes and hints of someone else’s thoughts in his own mind, could glimpse for scant half-seconds the fear and terror and uncertainty that had been carried all the way from the eastern marches, and he realized that this was as much for Maitimo’s benefit as his own. His husband was every bit as ragged and aching and raw as he was; their coupling filled a need deep within them.

_ Then devour me, _ he answered, sighing with pleasure as a second finger joined the first and struck that place within him that never failed to leave him breathless and dizzy.  _ I relish the thought of it. _

The teeth that had been too gentle until now sank into the arch of his neck, and Findekáno cried out and writhed in his husband’s arms, for the fingers within him began to move in tandem, spreading him, coating skin and muscle in oil, easing him apart with careful yet inescapable shifts and twists. 

“Now,” he said, for he was harder than diamond and he could feel Maitimo behind him matching him length for length. “It - it will be tight, but - but I need you, I  _ want  _ you - !” 

“And I want you,” Maitimo answered him, voice hot and deep and hungry, and the fingers slid from between his legs and left him empty, and a forearm that ended too abruptly pushed him forward until his face was pressed into the sheets, and felt the hand moving behind him, wrapping around the cock that rested against his back, stroking and stroking.

He was not empty for long. 

Maitimo entered him in one agonizingly slow motion, only stopping when they were flush against one another. Every movement of his hips pulled a moan from both their throats, relief and joy and pleasure and need mingling together until all they could feel was the sheer inescapable reality of the union itself; there were hot tears on the back of his neck and he realized that his husband was weeping.  _ Russo,  _ he thought, some nameless emotion welling up in his heart.

But then he could not think anything anymore, for Maitimo was moving, thrusting in and out, using his forearm to prop the both of them up while his left hand found Findekáno’s cock and began to stroke. The feel of skin on skin turned the world white behind the newly-crowned High King’s eyes, pleasure rising in him in tandem with his husband, their bond blazing to life. He ground his hips against Maitimo’s and fought to keep the keening, desperate noise that was rising in his throat from escaping. And then the hand on his shaft shifted, nails ghosting up and down, thumb running over its head, and he could not help but cry out as every muscle in his body went limp and he lost himself to the pleasure. His elbows were braced against the mattress, his face was buried in the blankets, and above him, below him, behind him surrounding him, ever-moving, ever-stroking, inescapable and inexorable, was  _ Maitimo _ , and, and - ! 

He did not know, in truth, how long they were twined about one another, how long they coupled, how long they lasted before he screamed into the bedclothes and the heat drained out from their hips and his husband’s hand came away wet and warm. But when at last the whole of creation had stopped sparking coppergold and silverblue, and he could breathe again, he realized that he was still lying facedown against linen sheets, and Maitimo was on top of him, heart pounding through his ribs. 

_ “Á ercat,” _ Findekáno gasped, voice shaking, and his husband chuckled as if to say  _ we just did,  _ and he craned his neck back to kiss the edges of the lips he could barely see. 

“It has been too long,” he managed at last. “Too long.”

“Yes,” Maitimo said, and rolled off of him, sliding out of him so that he could curl up against his husband’s larger frame. They were both weary, and moments from sleep, and yet they knew that slumber would doom them to the morning and the inevitable furtive parting. This was not Himring, distant and remote, and these were not the days of the Siege. 

“I don’t suppose that song of cleansing works on linen?” Findekáno murmured, and Maitimo laughed. 

“It might,” he admitted, and dipped his head to kiss the bare shoulder that was before him. “But I am spent, and cannot sing it now.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Findekáno said, smirking. “When it is a lovely warm bath, you simply  _ must _ demonstrate your prowess, but when it is my bed and we must lie in it, you do not  _ care.” _

“Hush,” Maitimo answered, wrapping both arms around him and pulling him close, “or I shall  _ make _ you hush.” 

“Oh no,” Findekáno answered, and clung to the bedsheets and held fast, wriggling out of his husband’s grasp. “You will -  _ ngh _ \- you will not win against me so easily!”

“So it’s a battle you want?” Maitimo asked with false bravado, rolling onto his stomach in an effort to pin Findekáno down. “You were always the weaker swordsman against me.”

“I will never surrender!” the other  _ nér _ said proudly, despite the fact that he was currently half-flattened, and as if to punctuate this statement he seized a pillow from near the headboard and twisted back on himself to smack Maitimo in the face with it. He then promptly burst out laughing, from his own absurdity and from the look he was being given in the wake of his befeathered assault. And then he pillow was forgotten, for his husband was moving on top of him again, arms and shoulders boxing him in, and their lips met, and met again, and his legs were wrapped about Maitimo’s waist, and they were suddenly hard again, rutting against one another and very near to coupling a second time. 

But instead they slid up to lie properly on the bed, and Findekáno was wrapped about his husband with his hands in glorious red hair, and despite the  _ milt _ on the linen sheets they found they could only bask in the warmth of their bond. Maitimo drew the covers up over them, shutting out the world; in the soft half-dark it was easy to forget who they were.

_ I love you, _ Findekáno thought, and the answering blaze of heat wrapped about the very core of his  _ fëa _ in an echo of their first night together and the endless love they had both drowned in. He pulled his husband closer to him, kissing his neck, his jaw, his lips.  _ I love you, and whatever comes, we shall face it together. _

_ Together, _ Maitimo replied, cradling him in both arms and returning his kisses in kind.  _ The thought of that makes me very nearly hopeful.  _

They drifted off to sleep, and their dreams were a mingling of memory and desire, and for once there was not even the shadow of pain on either of their faces. 


End file.
